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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299537">My mother told them she had no son</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSea/pseuds/SunshineSea'>SunshineSea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tyranny (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Excessive and unintentional lying, Found Family, Gen, Mystery, Sibling Bonding, Sirin is Little Sister energy and this is fact, T for swearing, Verbal Abuse from a Parent, mindwashing, no shipping at all, she's also funny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:15:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSea/pseuds/SunshineSea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sinking is a creature of open and unabashed emotion. She has seen his many moods, sudden yet predictable like waves on the sea, shift and churn and foam upon his face.<br/>Yet it seemed to her then that he was always smiling, and always had been, and always would be. The smile was to Sinking as other men’s fingers were to their hands; undivorceable. Even with his wet, red face cradled by his wet, red hands, broad and stubby and inelegant as they are, not diplomat’s hands but something more, he still manages to exude that air of a smile just waiting to be put into practice. </p><p>He sits a couple of steps away from the cliffs edge, on the border where straggling grass turns to stone. Sirin joins him. The ground ends abruptly here, but the sea goes on forever."</p><p>The Archon of Suggestion takes a trip home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. all that you are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sage Lantry, previously of the Vellum Citadel, loyal subject to Kyros and first-hand chronicler of the rise of the Archon of Suggestions, is frowning. His connection to the Archon gives his words some weight in the Bastard City, and he has used that weight to secure himself a desk at the library, now overflowing with parchment and animal skins which are, in turn, overflowing with sepia.</p><p>More accurately, he has secured one desk and two small tables. He has a lot to get through.</p><p>The Fatebinder- no, <em> Archon </em>now, he scratches that last word out- has given them all some much-needed reprieve from conflict. A couple of days off, he said. To clear the head. While the likes of Verse and Kills-In-Shadow grow frustrated with the lack of action, Lantry quite appreciates it. There has not been much time to organize his field notes into something coherent. Those field notes take up the majority of his desk at the moment, ready to be condensed and refined and written down in one, easy-to-read document, which will then be kept safe at the Spires until its fate is decided; it is either a blasphemous collection of evidence or the exciting retelling of how one man rose to defy a god, but it is all true. If it is true, it should be preserved.</p><p>He has to tell himself that.</p><p>His frown is not caused by the mountain of work he has given himself, though, nor is it caused by the looming of the Overlord’s fury in the distance. No, Sage Lantry frowns because his careful and honest notes, which should be like puzzle pieces coming together into an informative mosaic, <em> don’t fit. </em></p><p>He’s checked and double-checked. He’s had other eyes than his own look over the contradicting parts. He even took an uncomfortable desk-nap, hoping it was exhaustion that made his head swim.</p><p>Nothing has worked. The truth that must be preserved stares him in the eye. <em> These notes are inaccurate. </em></p><p>It is all his own handwriting, so he cannot rightly suspect sabotage. No, no he is a practical man. The easiest answer is that he has been fed false information, but that raises red flags of its own. His notes on the events he directly witnessed are all correct; it is the second-hand stuff, the retellings, that contradict themselves, and only when the Archon is concerned.</p><p>According to Sinking’s own statements he was born an only son to house Nevarrat in the year 401, and took to a nomadic sort of diplomacy training for an early age. Aiming to find the name of his parents, Lantry had taken this information with him to the library and scoured the shelves for “heritage scrolls” as the locals called them, but he had not found house Nevarrat among the names belonging to the Bastard City. No problem, he thought. Many nobles fell out of favour after the conquests and had their names stricken from public record. He would just have to look for missed references, something he was very good at. Except…</p><p>When he finally finds reference to family Nevarrat it’s in a waterstained tome on coastland nobles, not even in the same Tier as Sinking claims to hail from. What’s more, there are no births recorded in the year 401. A daughter came to be in 398 and two more, a set of twins, in 405, and the record states no more children until 431, the year of the conquest, when the first daughter and her Apex-born husband bear an heir of their own.</p><p>Curious.</p><p>Lantry could believe that Sinking simply got the year wrong (the year of his own birth?) and that he stopped identifying as a daughter somewhere in his travels, but… Would that make him the one that got married, or the one that has a twin? Would Sinking really not have mentioned either of those fundamental facts? Also, the professions of the three daughters are stated as “merchant, soldier, soldier”, with no mention of any diplomat training.</p><p><em> Curious </em>.</p><p>Lantry can understand not finding reference to Sinking during the years he was supposedly travelling, as his tutors paradoxically took him to backwater settlements and secluded courts to learn the finer points of culture and social grace. He can understand not finding anything on those tutors themselves. He only has one confirmed name after all, and if Marguerite was the type to believe in ancient beastman myths of creation, she was probably not nobility.</p><p>The problem is that Lantry can’t find <em> anything </em>concrete on the Archon until much, much later; the year 425, when Nevarrat Solem is accepted as an apprentice of the court and begins his journey to becoming a Fatebinder. He is noted to have graduated and received his title in 430, a little later than his peers due to additional tutelage under Bleden Mark. He is also noted to have discarded his family name to “honour the impartiality of the court” and is known to his peers and subjects as Fatebinder Sinking.</p><p>In his head he can hear the Archon echo. <em> “My mother told them she had no son.”  </em></p><p>It doesn’t make sense.</p><p>He spends another evening looking for textual evidence of the lost son of Nevarrat, but despite being noble enough to have a surname and estate, they don’t seem to have done anything of note. All the mentions of them that Lantry can find simply confirm that they exist and that they accepted Kyros as their rightful leader when the war came. When the sun dips away he performs the sigils of light to keep reading but find his hands slow and cumbersome. His eyes and mind are bleary. He leans back, surveying the mountainous landscape of scrolls that he has built, and faces the facts.</p><p>He cannot in good conscience keep compiling his notes on the Archon. Not until he confirms the truth of them, at least. Lantry has always been more of an active historian, but… Well, research is part of his training. Might as well make use of it.</p><p>The last thing he does before slowly starting to clean his workspace is send a missive to the Iron Hearth, asking about the whereabouts of one Nevarrat Pelica. He makes sure to coat the letter in all forms of flattery and mentions “preserving the history of noble families” roughly five times to make it stick.</p><p>__</p><p>"Sage Lantry,</p><p>I was surprised to receive your bird. Suppose it is lucky for you that I was stationed at Iron Hearth when it arrived. Had you been a day early I would still have been on the road, and I suspect the rookery would have thrown it away.</p><p>As it stands, yes, I am of Nevarrat blood, though that means little to the Disfavored. My family at least had the good sense to bend the knee when Kyros knocked on our door. Of course, being filthy tiersmen as we are, I am not an official part of their ranks, though I cannot complain.</p><p>Thank you for asking, by the way. If you are not-so-subtly trying to gather evidence for Graven Ashe mistreating his prisoners, you will not get it from me. I am happy with my position.</p><p>I fear I will not be able to tell you much about my brother. To be perfectly honest I do not really remember him; I am not sure I would even be able to pick him out of a crowd if I had to. As far as I understand he was sent away on some sort of training when I was very young, and I did not hear about him again until the fall of Stalwart, when my mother mentioned in a missive that he was the one to read the Edict of Storms. Strange, is it not? One of our obscure little ilk becoming a Fatebinder. I would never have thought it.</p><p>I would be happy to give you directions to my mother’s estate if you wish to write to her (see the reverse), though I would ask you to indulge me some questions in return.</p><p>Having spent so much time in the company of northerners I find myself wanting for the same family bonds that they cherish so much. They seem so genuinely proud to be from where they are, to know the people they know… There is a comfort in knowing your kin, and I do not wish to go to my grave without it. I keep regular correspondence with my mother and sisters, but receiving your letter has reminded me that there is family I have left behind. Please, if you would, tell me of my brother. Where is he now? Is he at court? I might be able to convince someone here to take me to Bastard City and see him, should that be the case. Is he well? Has he fathered children? It shames me to say it, but I cannot even recall what he looked like. I like to think he might look like me.</p><p>May the war spare your blood,<br/>
Nevarrat Pelica.”</p><p>__</p><p>Lantry turns the missive over in his hand and finds a simple, stamped map on the reverse, the kind used by rookeries to indicate places for couriers. A small portion of the northern Stone Sea has been circled in red, with the words “Shellwall house” penned beneath.</p><p>With an exhausted look at the waiting carrier bird, he starts writing a response. He could, in theory, just take Pelica’s map and run with it, as she had given him everything he wanted.</p><p>He could. What he does instead is dip his quill, intending to give her as accurate of a representation of her brother as he can. Honestly, her letter moved him a little. He cannot fault anyone for wishing to reconnect with their kin.</p><p>__</p><p>“Dear Pelica,</p><p>Thank you so much for your response. It was very informative. I will write to your mother at once, with the hope that she might see me in person.</p><p>Regarding your brother, I am pleased to say he is very well. Like many Fatebinders he chose to discard his name at the end of his training, and he now goes by Sinking. It’s a long story. I have had the pleasure of dealing with him in person on several occasions and he is every bit as charming, intelligent and kind as a diplomat can be expected to be… When he wants to. In private he is a creature of great humour. Those who know him less well than I might describe him as unpredictable, even rash, but I have come to see that his plans, as shallow and chaotic as they may seem on the outside, always come to some favourable conclusion. He has a great way with words and people. I assume this to be the consequence of good education.</p><p>As for his looks and whether they resemble yours, I obviously can’t say. I will settle for describing him to you.</p><p>He is a tall man, brown of hair and eye and pale of skin, though lately his face has been sunburnt more often than not. I have heard him talk of having many scars as a result of his profession, though none are anywhere visible. If I were to give you one defining characteristic to, as you put it, “pick him out of a crowd”, I would put forward his hair. It is remarkably long and shimmers like silk. At first I thought it impractical, but I have come to understand that the Fatebinder’s looks are one of the few comforts he allows himself, and I cannot fault him for that. After all, what is a little vanity in the face of war?</p><p>If you wish to reply to me, keep in mind that I will be at the library for only a night longer. After that I can be reached at the mountain spire overseeing Vendrien’s Well.</p><p>Regards,<br/>
Sage Lantry.”</p><p>__</p><p>He makes the conscious choice to not inform Pelica about her brother’s new standing and title. It’s clear to him that she does not follow current events, and, if she does, she has not connected the new Archon of Suggestion with the vague mental image of the brother she never knew. He has given her his new name, though; she can draw her own conclusions.</p><p>With the missive sent, Lantry rifles for the least stained piece of parchment he owns. Nobility is nobility and nobility demands respect, even if house Nevarrat has not exactly done anything deserving of such. With a quick look at the coastland records he took with him to find her name, Lantry starts writing.</p><p>__</p><p>“For the esteemed Nevarrat Luce, head of her house.”</p><p>And then he stops. He sucks the ink from his quill and ponders.</p><p>Should he take the “glorious lost son” angle, exalting Sinking’s deeds to get on her good side? What if she doesn’t care for him? Should he try to feed into <em> that </em>, and talk about how his troublesome demeanour and frequent lies has made the old sage dig into his backstory? Or find some kind of neutral midway point and just ask her for a meeting with no incentive? Maybe he shouldn’t mention Sinking at all. Is that dishonest? Yes, it is, but is it necessary?</p><p>He remembers Pelica’s statement that her family are all loyal subjects to Kyros, and decides to run with it. He shakes his head and shears the top off the parchment.</p><p>__</p><p>“Intended for Nevarrat Luce,</p><p>Greetings, and I trust this message finds you in good health. I would first like to state that I was given your location by your daughter, Nevarrat Pelica, whom I have been in correspondence with these past few days. She wishes for me to tell you that she has just returned to Iron Hearth and is doing well in her service to Kyros.</p><p>I am known as Sage Lantry. I am currently serving-” a pause. Then he decides to just lie. “-the court under the Archon of Justice, who has tasked me with collecting and correcting historical records. I am sure someone of your station is no stranger to clerical work, and it is for this reason I hope that you may take time out of your duties to indulge me some answers. While not the most exciting work, I relish in my chance to serve our Overlord, as we all should.”</p><p>Is that too thick? What if madame Luce was not the loyalist he had pictured? Though she’s clearly not a rebel, so maybe putting on an air of zealotry would make his request harder to deny. He continues.</p><p>“My current concern is that of Fatebinder Sinking. He is a most dutiful servant to the cause, and yet he has not nearly as much documentation behind him as one of his status demands, and a man in his position rarely has the free time for the extensive interviews that proper documentation requires. It is therefore my humble hope that you might be willing to receive me at your estate at your convenience, as I have great curiosity about his early life. I am afraid I have not been granted the official means to compensate you for your time, but if such a thing would motivate you, then I might be able to find a way. Either way, your assistance would be a great help in rebuilding the knowledge of the Tiers, and would serve the court well.</p><p>With bated breath,</p><p>Sage Lantry.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. and all that you knew</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nevarrat Luce replies four days later, as cordial and cold as Lantry expects nobility to be. Her missive simply says:</p><p>__</p><p>“Sage Lantry,</p><p>I would be pleased to receive you at any time. I am unlikely to travel soon.</p><p>-          Nevarrat Luce, head.”</p><p>__</p><p>… and that’s it. Well, that was a waste of his good words.</p><p>Still, a success is a success, and he starts making travel plans at once. He had not planned on taking the Archon with him (surely, he must be busy), but Sinking bounds out of the frighteningly blue sky and lands upon the spire with dancer’s feet, and he is very hard to deny. Whatever tussle he and Sirin got into out there seems to have invigorated him greatly.</p><p>“My ma? You’re going to see my ma?” he says after prying the letter from Lantry’s hands.</p><p>“What, and you didn’t invite me?”</p><p>“In my defence, you weren’t here. Where have you been, anyway?”</p><p>Sirin flashes him a bone-white grin from her cot.</p><p>“We went shopping!”</p><p>“We did!” and Sinking rifles in his bag, pulling out several bloody vials of something bright purple. Lantry would recognize bane essence even if it didn’t hum so loudly with unspent arcana. He steps in closer out of curiosity more than anything, and notices how the essence shifts and swirls, almost not solid, with… Is that- is that <em> bits </em>floating in it? Brighter pieces of purple, kind of sharp, jagged, like claws or teeth, reaching for him-</p><p>“Is that thing <em> alive </em>?” he asks, baffled. Sinking cannot stop smiling. He rarely does.</p><p>“Sure is! Sirin found a way to calm them down with her singing, makes them all goopy until you scoop them up. Then they get angry.”</p><p>“The first bottles broke,” Sirin interjects, “turns out we were giving them too much room. Anyway, what’s this about visiting Sinking’s family?”</p><p>Lantry picks his battles with a muttered “ah, yes” and takes the missive back. He will have to deal with barely-contained bane some other time.</p><p>He conjures up some excuse about better documenting the early stages of the conquest and its effect on noble houses, which sounds just boring enough to lose Sinking’s interest. He still insists on coming along. To Lantry’s surprise, so does Sirin. She hugs the Archon around the waist and says something about “finally meeting the rest of the family”, which Sinking laughs at. Then he picks her up and threatens to throw her off the spire again.</p><p>It had proper terrified her the first couple of times, but Lantry supposes the novelty must have worn off when it became a daily occurrence. Honestly, if Sirin hadn’t been so honest about her background, Lantry would have been inclined to believe the two of them were siblings.</p><p>He just barely manages to corral them into packing their things. There have been times in his life when Lantry has second-guessed his choice of not having children, but this is not one of those times.</p><p> </p><p>Roughly five hours later, he receives a bird on the road. How it found him is anyone’s guess. Sinking is busy telling Sirin about the flora they’re passing (which he clearly has no idea about), so Lantry can unwrap the missive and read it in relative privacy as they walk. It is sealed with the square-shaped symbol of Iron Hearth.</p><p>__</p><p>“Sage Lantry,</p><p>I apologize for responding so slowly. I hope this reaches you at the spire. I am afraid that this letter will not be as useful to you as my last one was, for one reason.</p><p>The man you described is not my brother.</p><p>I do not claim to know the boy who left our household in my youth, so your description of his temperament may very well be correct. His physical description, as far as I trust your words to be the truth, cannot be any kin of mine. Members of house Nevarrat have, for all of history as far as I know, been known for our unusual combination of colours, specifically our ebony skin and eyes ranging from pale blue to almost transparent grey. You will see these traits in my mother. And before you make up your mind about whether or not it is polite to ask me; yes, inbreeding has played no small part in keeping us visually similar. It is not a point of pride, but neither is it a secret.</p><p>Whoever this pale-faced, long-haired Fatebinder you describe is, I wish him all the well, but he is not Nevarrat Solem. You are still welcome to contact my mother (assuming you have not already done so), but I would advise against bringing this stranger to her. She can be prickly. She might take offense.</p><p>May the war spare your blood,</p><p>Nevarrat Pelica”</p><p>__</p><p>He doesn’t have time to read the letter again. As if on cue, Sinking bounds back into view, wielding a palm of bright-red berries that he has found by the wayside, and convincing him not to eat them takes all of his attention. It doesn’t help that Sirin keeps urging him on. Hours later, when the matter is settled and the sun starts to dip, he has made the unsteady decision to not share the contents of his missive with the others.</p><p>He keeps it, though. He keeps it on the inside of his coat with the undeniable feeling that, in the near future, he will be forced to confront it.</p><p>__</p><p>
  <span>Shellwall house is a gorgeous building. It stands a handful of leagues from the small town named after it, on the precipice of the rocky coast framing Azure.</span>
</p><p>There is no front garden. No fence. On the northern, western and southern sides, the building is surrounded by dry, cracked earth, like the rest of the Stone Sea. Its proud white walls seem to have escaped the worst of the edict, though; they stand as tall as when they were built, occasionally giving away to small windows, framed by woodwork so delicate it looks like lace from where they are standing. Lantry steps to the side of the house to see that the east wall is as bone-white as the rest of the building, but where the other flats are painted, this one is covered with tiny, white, sun-bleached bumps.<br/>
Seashells. Every inch of the wall is covered in seashells. Below them, at the foundation, the building stands exactly parallel to the drop of the clifface below it, creating the illusion of white stretching all the way down into the frothing waters, and the image of it makes him quite dizzy.</p><p>The path to the humble front door is indicated by small, flat stones, the kind that would be perfect for skipping across waters on a calm day. Lantry notices his companions have not walked down it. Sinking is staring at the house; Sirin is staring at Sinking, her youthful face furrowed uncharacteristically.</p><p>Lantry coughs to get their attention. Sirin looks at him, Sinking does not. He gestures to the door with a raised eyebrow, and Sirin nods. Then she tentatively wraps her fingers around her brother’s and pulls at him, moving slowly between the skipping rocks, seabreeze playing with his hair, and his eyes are far, far away.</p><p>The sharp knocking seems to shake Sinking out of his stupor, and his brown eyes blink into sudden, nervous focus. He looks not unlike a rabbit being pulled from its den. Sirin goes up on her toes to whisper something to him and Lantry knocks again; this time the noise outright startles the Archon, who shakes his head before mumbling an answer.<br/>
On the third knock, the door opens. </p><p>In front of Lantry there now stands a tall, dignified woman. Her long face is made even longer by the sharp coves of her steel-grey hair, pulled into a headache-inducing bun, the skin so taught over her forehead that it seems to force her eyes wide open. Lantry clears his throat.</p><p>“Evening, madame. We are-”</p><p>The woman interrupts him.</p><p>“I know,” she snaps. She sounds exactly like most breeds of small dogs. “You’re expected. You’re also late. Come in. No shoes.” and then she turns and walks briskly the other way, leaving the door open for them. </p><p>Lantry looks behind him, bewildered and a little offended. He had hoped Sinking might be able to take the lead on this one, seeing as how this is supposedly his childhood home and everything, but he looks as intimidated as Lantry feels. He mouths a quiet “I don’t know” before squeezing past and pulling Sirin in with him, into the gaping mouth of Shellwall house.</p><p> </p><p>It feels a little bit like walking through time. </p><p>The hallway is made of horizontal boards with barely enough space for two people side-by-side, if they don’t mind getting intimate, and painted a dainty blue color, synergizing with the various coastal motifs decorating them. Lantry picks out three different paintings that use old weathered rope instead of frames, all depicting ships. A sliver-thin side table adorned with little trinkets stands next to the foot of the staircase, which is a winding, spindly thing of ancient wood, pressing against the wall and climbing out of sight into the worryingly low-hanging roof.<br/>
It is downright claustrophobic.<br/>
The narrow hallway goes on for a long time, and there are two white doors on either side with large spaces between. It ends in another door, this one open. </p><p>“Has anyone told these people about the war?” Sirin asks. Her voice breaks a little bit of the strange tension, and Sinking laughs with that sounds like relief. He shuffles his coat off his shoulders and hangs it one of the beaten brass hooks by the door. Lantry can’t help but notice that the familiarity of it seems forced.</p><p>“Why is the east wall covered in shells?” he asks, taking his own coat off. Sirin has gotten to work on untying her slippers.</p><p>“Because it’s <em> Shellwall </em>house, duh!”</p><p>“Of course, of course. And in actuality?”</p><p>“Uh, I think it’s because of the weather? Like, the wall facing the ocean has to be reinforced with something hard so the salt spray doesn’t ruin it.”</p><p>As he speaks, he seems to get more at ease. Lantry nods. It makes sense to him, at least. </p><p>Barefoot and coatless, the three of them make their way down the hallway, Sinking following Sirin following Lantry. </p><p>Lantry tries to imagine growing up here. Tiny, sticky hands getting all over the pristine walls, knocking down the little trinkets and paintings and carefully arranged “rustic” rope bits on the walls, tiny feet pounding the thin cotton carpet, but… It doesn’t really work. He can’t imagine a rambunctious young Nevarrat Solem throwing himself down that spindly staircase, or playing by the terrifyingly close cliff with his sisters. He can’t imagine any child thriving in these cramped, blue spaces. </p><p> </p><p>They shuffle single-file into what can be assumed to be the living room. There is very little light, and it is very hard to tell.</p><p> </p><p>The windows are all covered by drawn lace curtains, and the window sills are absolutely <em> packed </em> with <em> things </em>; things of all shapes and sizes and uses, the only cohesive theme being blue and glass and fragility. Spindly figurines of various materials bend over and under each other along the shelves, thick glass domes containing wilting flowers, books and intricate boxes crowd every surface, and none of it seems to serve a use. Dust lays thick on the things that are too high up to reach easily; everything else seems to be kept relatively clean.</p><p>As he scans the room, Lantry comes to the slow realization.</p><p>There is a certain degree of organization to the clutter. Every corner of every surface is taken up by flowers; the middles of those surfaces house boxes and books. The walls are plastered in shelves with blue glass on them all. In fact, the more he looks, the more he gets the impression that these aren’t trinkets for trinkets’ sake; it’s almost as if someone living here just <em> detests </em> the idea of vacant space. His original impression that this would be a difficult place for a child to grow up intensifies.</p><p> </p><p>The cramped room is centered by two, thin couches with a low table between them, all made of light wood with pastel blue upholstery. Someone is sitting in one of them. When they enter, and in the intervening seconds of absorbing the area, this someone stands up.</p><p>She is short. Thin. Old. Her dark skin makes the hair on her head look impossibly white. Her wrinkled face is set in a configuration that looks vaguely displeased, with a strong nose and lips so thin they are barely visible, and there, commanding attention due to their sheer peculiarity, are two transparent eyes.</p><p>Lantry doesn’t know how else to describe them. Maybe they were blue, once; pastel, like her home, but now the irises are bleeding into the whites, guided by threadbare veins, and they are transparent.</p><p>And there is not a single thing about her that resembles Sinking.</p><p> </p><p>Sirin tugs at his sleeve, and Lantry manages to force his eyes off the strange woman. Sinking has taken a step forward. He looks- well, it’s hard to tell exactly how he looks due to the angle, but there’s something like panic wafting from him. He makes an “m” sound (ma? mater? mother?) but does not finish it. Madame Nevarrat, for surely this must be her, makes a noise of displeasure.</p><p> </p><p>“Your hair has gotten long.”</p><p>Her voice matches nothing about her tiny body. It’s strong and cold. Sinking audibly swallows.</p><p>“N-not that long. Not since last time,” and when an almost hostile silence follows, he adds an uncertain “... mother.”</p><p>Nevarrat Luce goes <em> tsk, tsk, </em>and then sits back down. Her hands have been clasped firmly against her simple, white dress this whole time. </p><p> </p><p>“Sit.” she commands. Lantry obeys without thinking, and Sirin does the same. The two-seat nature of the spindly couches forces one of them to sit next to madame Nevarrat herself, and Sinking, on account of being the slowest, gets that honor.</p><p>“Not there,” Nevarrat snaps, and they all jump up.</p><p>“My son in front of me. The girl beside me.”</p><p>They rearrange dutifully.</p><p>That tall woman that greeted them at the door enters from the hallway, carrying a metal serving tray with four cups, a teapot, some sugarcubes and a tiny ceramic pitcher of milk. The coffee table is too full of other stuff to set it down. Instead, Lantry is handed his cup, apparently expected to just hold it the entire visit. It’s ice cold in his hands. </p><p>“You were late,” Nevarrat states, wrapping bony fingers around her own cup, “so the tea is cold. This is a lesson.”</p><p>Sirin catches his eyes across the table, so close to the old woman that their elbows are touching. She looks panicked. He returns her gaze with a not-as-comforting-as-intended kind of shrug. Sinking is staring holes into the plain carpet.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>His shoulders are almost up to his ears with nerves. </p><p> </p><p>“So!”</p><p>Nevarrat clicks her tongue.</p><p>“My only son comes to see me for once. Imagine my surprise.”</p><p>“Ma’, I’m an <em> Archon </em>,” Sinking answers, sounding too guilty to be offended.</p><p>“Oh, I’ve heard! I am <em> so happy </em> you found yet another way to discard your family name, Solem. First Fatebinder, and now <em> Archon </em> . Why, it makes my old heart <em> swell. </em>”</p><p>Her voice is not just sarcastic. It’s outright hostile. </p><p>“You know, when I received the missive from this man,” she jabs her finger at Lantry, making him flinch, “I was not the <em> least </em> surprised to learn of your obscurity. <em> Archon. </em> Such a glorious title, such an outstanding boon from our Overlord, and yet- and yet you manage to be <em> perfectly mediocre </em> at it, as you have always been. Seems that the whole of the Tiers are crowding to sing your name, but they do not know what to sing! Because you have not <em> done </em>anything, yet, and you have thrown away your name-”</p><p>“Ma-”</p><p>“- and I can only assume that this is the universe’s unsubtle way of punishing me, though I know not for what. The least fit of my children, clambering his way to the top through accident and circumstance, and he does not even have the honor to wave his family banner once he gets there.”</p><p> </p><p>As far as Lantry can tell, Sinking has nothing in common with this woman. The thought of her being his mother is absurd. Still… Would her ire be this intense if she wasn’t? And Sinking has that not-quite-crying look in his eyes, like a child facing a disappointed parent, and <em> that </em>, Lantry can conclude safely, is not an act. </p><p>So he is her son. Or, at least, she raised him. Lantry wishes he could have seen Sinking’s father, but the man passed two decades ago. </p><p> </p><p>Nevarrat’s unsettling eyes are suddenly on him. He’s had pat-downs that feel less invasive than that stare.</p><p>“You wished to know about him, then? Sages are supposed to be taking notes.”</p><p>“Right,” Lantry blusters. He chugs his cold tea (it tastes like nothing, unsurprisingly) and, like a spirit summoned, the tall servant is at his side and snapping it out of his hands. This frees him up to gather the parchment and quill from his backpack. </p><p>He dips it twice and jots down a few quick descriptions of the Nevarrat home and the Nevarrat head, before clearing his throat.</p><p>“Ready when you are, ma’am.” </p><p>The cold woman nods. Then her eyes zip back to Sinking, who is doing his best to melt away into a seat too small for him.</p><p>“There are many, many things I do not understand about you, Solem. Look at me when I am talking to you.”</p><p>Sinking looks at her when she is talking to him.</p><p>“Do you know what the most confusing thing is? Your <em> name. </em> You threw away the nobility you came from when you took the mantle of Fatebinder, that much is clear. When I told Gwinn about it she said you might just be trying to honor the impartiality of the court. Oh, one can certainly <em> hope </em>, I said, but I know you. You could barely wait until your father was cold in the grave before you took off and left us behind. Of course you were going to abandon the family name as well.”</p><p>“Ma,” Sinking protests, “you <em> sent me away!”  </em></p><p>“I certainly did! You were useless as a mage, and our Overlord was fast approaching! What was I going to do, offer you as a soldier in your sorry state?”</p><p>Her voice is getting sharper and higher by the second, so different from Sinking’s warm, lulling tones.</p><p>“No. No, you had to go into training. And somewhere along the way you picked up that despicable nickname- <em> Sinking </em> ,” Lantry half expects her to spit on the floor when she says it, “and as a final insult, you replace your first name with it, too. Why, Nevarrat Solem might as well be dead! Now there is only <em> Fatebinder Sinking </em>. You sound like a wet choirman.”</p><p>Sinking looks genuinely distressed. Seeing this, Lantry finishes his last note in a hurry and clears his throat again.</p><p>“Ma’am, if I may? The Archon’s change in address is well documented already. If we could return to his early life for a moment? Childhood, perhaps?”</p><p>Nevarrat Luce waves her hand. Despite her tirade there are no traces of anger on her face. It’s just ice, all of her.</p><p>“What is there to tell? Of course, there was the gossip. People saying he was not our son. I can hardly blame them when I look at him. Had he not been so starkly unlike me and my late husband both, the commoners would have accused me of infidelity, no doubt. I think the common consensus was that he washed up on the shore as a babe and we took him in out of some useless, soft-hearted obligation. All lies, I tell you. I remember the day I birthed him as clearly as if it was yesterday.”</p><p>She visibly shudders at the memory. Lantry jots it down.</p><p>“We both nearly perished, but I was strong. Still am. I remember asking the stars for a son while he was in my belly, and behold- the universe provides. Oh, I could <em> laugh. </em>”</p><p>She does not laugh.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. is rendered to nothing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following hours are some of the slowest, most tense ones of Lantry’s long life. The worst part is that he can tell within the first thirty minutes that it’s no use.</p><p>Nevarrat Luce is more than happy to talk about her son (and his lacking) at great lengths, which makes the holes in her story that much more apparent. She claims that Sinking was born in 401 and 403 in the same sentence. She says her son was sent for diplomat training to a private institution, and when Sinking gently reminds her that he was actually trained by a series of tutors on the road, she immediately changes her story. Despite telling them of her near-perfect memory, she seems to have no recollection of how Sinking acted as a child, what his hobbies and interests were, what friends he had in the village, his interactions with his sisters- anything, really. It’s all waved away as unimportant so she can talk about his adult life and his adult flaws. </p><p>And even on that topic she seems ignorant. She apparently did not see her son from the age of twelve (or ten, or thirteen, depending on when Lantry asks), all the way up to the trial that would offer him the position of Fatebinder. That she recalls with startling clarity.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I was roused from my bed by Gwinn, saying we had a Fatebinder at the door. Official business, apparently. She told me my son had been apprehended by the court and needed someone to confirm his story! Of course, I had long assumed Solem to be dead, given his lack of letters when the conquests started. I told them I had no son and the Fatebinder still asked me to come to the capital so I could tell it to the court. So I did! I was not about to let some lowly criminal claim the Nevarrat name for his own protection.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And then, when she met Sinking at the trial, she had apparently suddenly recalled everything about her long-lost son. The reunion had been cold and practical. </p><p>As Nevarrat speaks and Lantry writes, Sinking’s interjections grow few and far between. The hurt on his face shifts to something unreadable; blank, like the vast, white canvas of a winter morning, and by the time they have outstayed their welcome, he is no longer there. The shape of him remains hollow where it leans on the uncomfortable couch. </p><p>Madame Luce gives them all a curt nod as they are escorted out of the living room. When she tells her only son “goodbye” he responds with a muted “bye, ma” without looking. Then there’s the servant, then there’s the needleyed hallway, then there’s the coat rack and silence and, finally, fresh air tinged with seascent when the door closes behind them, leaving all three standing still on the right side of the threshold. The atmosphere between them is thick enough to taste. </p><p>Sirin takes a deep breath, making a show of being about to speak while eyeing Lantry hard to make him do it first. Lantry takes a deep breath as well and figures it is his responsibility as the oldest to do so, though he has no idea what to say. Sinking acts before either of them.</p><p> </p><p>“What a bitch, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>- and the spell breaks. Sirin’s inhale turns into a high-pitched giggle on the way out, tittering, nervous, and Lantry joins her so her discomfort won’t seem too obvious, adding his own laughter until all three of them are laughing together; it’s loud and uneven and jarringly fake, but so needed that none dare point a finger at it. Sinking covers his face with his hands and laughs into his palms until he starts snorting, which makes Sirin laugh for real, which makes Lantry smile in earnest joy - a joy that turns cold once Sinking’s snorts start to stagger in his mouth, face reddening rapidly around the too-tight grip of his fingers. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves until the entirety of the man looks to be either crumbling or convulsing, and the half-laughter is startling sharp.</p><p>“Oh,” Sirin says once she realizes what is happening, “Oh, oh Sinking- Hey, it’s okay-” and even though he empathises with the Archon very much, Lantry cannot help being relieved when Sinking suddenly turns and starts walking around the west wall of the house, disappearing from sight. Sirin looks after him, and then turns to Lantry in alarm.</p><p> </p><p>“Should we- I mean, should I-”</p><p>“Best leave him alone for a moment,” the sage replies, swinging his backpack onto his front to rummage after his pipe. He almost offers it to Sirin, remembers her age, then remembers that he started when he was younger than she is now and offers it to her anyway. She declines.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure? I think he’s pretty upset.”</p><p>“Oh, I imagine he is. That’s probably why he left.”</p><p>A second of silence. Lantry sparks his tobacco and puffs to fill the time. </p><p>“Is it…” Sirin begins, before cutting herself off. She looks a little nervous, but she does not look uncertain. With a deep breath she tries again.</p><p>“Is any of it true?”</p><p>Lantry puffs. </p><p>“Some of it has to be, but I don’t know how much of it yet.”</p><p>Her eyes dart over his face (looking for lies?) and when they settle they are dark with worry and unconcealed anger.</p><p>“You mean you <em> knew? </em>” </p><p>“I had suspicions, Archon, but I didn’t <em> know </em>anything until now,” and it’s only half a lie.</p><p>“How long have you had <em> suspicions </em>, then?”</p><p>“Only a couple of days.” it’s a full lie. Sirin looks more worried by the second.</p><p>“Do you think Sinking knows?”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s the question, isn’t it. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. if none of it's true</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sinking is a creature of open and unabashed emotion. She has seen his many moods, sudden yet predictable like waves on the sea, shift and churn and foam upon his face.</span>
</p><p>Yet it seemed to her then that he was always smiling, and always had been, and always would be. The smile was to Sinking as other men’s fingers were to their hands; undivorceable. Even with his wet, red face cradled by his wet, red hands, broad and stubby and inelegant as they are, not diplomat’s hands but something more, he still manages to exude that air of a smile just waiting to be put into practice. </p><p>He sits a couple of steps away from the cliffs edge, on the border where straggling grass turns to stone. Sirin joins him. The ground ends abruptly here, but the sea goes on forever.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she says. It feels like as good a place to start as any. She can see him shake his sleeves down in her periphery and wipe his whole face on them.</p><p>“Hey,” he replies. Then, “It’s been a day, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>His voice breaks on the <em> huh </em>and Sirin has to remind her heart to slow down. Sinking is nothing like her father, whose only two emotions were placated or dangerous. She reaches for him, as if to confirm this, and finds him as soft and safe as he has always been. He puts a hand over hers where it rests and collects himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Sorry for what?”</p><p>“Freaking out. Not a good look on me.”</p><p>“You just started crying. That’s hardly freaking out.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her and she can see a sliver of sunshine poking through his eyes. Her heart stills.<br/>
Then his expression turns to a frown.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m all right, you know.”</p><p>“I know, but you didn’t seem all right.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t be worrying about me.”</p><p>“Hey- I just watched you get chewed out by your mother for an hour and then you stomped off! I can’t just <em> not worry </em>!”</p><p>“You’re a kid! Kids shouldn’t be worrying about adults!”</p><p>There’s a simple logic to it, just like there is to most things Sinking say, and it both warms and offends her.</p><p>“I’m <em> sixteen- </em>”</p><p>“You’re <em> fifteen, </em>and that means you’re still a kid. I’m fine. I really am.”</p><p> </p><p>She breathes a sigh of relief.</p><p>“Good. I’m glad.”</p><p> </p><p>Then there’s silence. The waves have no coast to break against and the wind is barely there, so when Sirin looks below she sees no foam and hears no crashing. There is only the continuous bulging of the water where it glides towards the cliff, and then a dip, a diminishing, as it fades into flatness once more. She is still young enough to imagine the unborn waves as creatures almost surfacing before they dive back down, though it is not as entertaining as it would have been years ago. She supposes she should breach the second subject now that Sinking is confirmed to be fine. She does not want to. </p><p>Instead she lets slip what will, allowing herself to remember that the world is not wholly her responsibility. Allowing herself to believe that she is young, or at least that Sinking thinks she is young, and that questions of feeling can be hers to answer, but questions of identity and history are okay to pass along. She spots a jellyfish being bullied by the current and turns around to tell her brother, and finds him on his back in the dry grass with a forearm covering his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Archons?”</p><p> </p><p>Lantry’s voice turns the corner before he does. Sinking lets his arm fall back and looks at him upside down. </p><p>“It’s safe to come out,” he says before Lantry can ask, “I’m done crying!”</p><p>He gets a barely uncomfortable smile in return. Sirin, being a person with a lick of sense, can tell where the conversation is headed and places herself firmly in the background to listen. </p><p> </p><p>Lantry buys himself some time by spreading his travelling cloak on the ground next to Sinking. Then he taps out, re-packs and re-lights his pipe. He pulls a paper from his breast pocket and places his backpack in his lap, from which he produces several small, tightly wound scrolls, instantly recognizable as note-taking paper by anyone who has ever spent more than five seconds in Lantry’s company, followed by a quill, followed by some ink, and then, finally, followed by spoken words.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me, Archon, if you would- after this visit, what conclusions are you left with?”</p><p>Sinking tenses for a split second, before breathing himself back.</p><p>“Nothing new, I think. My mom hates me and thinks I’m a disgrace.”</p><p>“And that is all?”</p><p>It is not all, but Sinking rubs a blade of grass between his fingers instead of answering. Maybe he doesn’t want to lie. Lantry clears his throat of smoke. </p><p>“It seems to me,” he says, as slowly an amicably as only an old man can be, “that madame Nevarrat had some holes in her story.”</p><p>The blade of grass breaks.</p><p>“She did,” Sinking admits .</p><p>“Holes that were glaringly obvious when concerning your childhood, Archon.”</p><p>“... They were.”</p><p>“And she did not know you very well.”</p><p>“And she doesn’t look like me.”</p><p> </p><p>He covers his face again, but Sirin can see his breathing is staying slow and even. She wonders if it might be for her sake. </p><p> </p><p>“Sinking.”</p><p>Lantry does not look as steadfast as he sounds. Sinking does not answer. He keeps himself calm.</p><p>“Sinking, I have a theory, and I think you might know what it is. It needs to be said.”</p><p>“It doesn’t,” the Archon replies and his voice is thick as wool.</p><p>“Maybe not, but I think it would do some good nonetheless.”</p><p>Sirin thinks about how good it is that they are outside right now, or all this deep breathing might suffocate the three. Lantry sets his face.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think Nevarrat Luce is your mother.”</p><p> </p><p>The words are calm. The voice is calm. The sea is calm.</p><p>And yet hearing them spoken seems to break something; the air gets thinner, the wind gets colder. Even the jellyfish turns to a crystalline pinpoint as the ocean grabs its helpless form and flings it along an invisible track, sending it dancing away from the cliff and the confrontation about to take place. Sirin half-wishes she could go with it, half-wishes it could have the decency to stay. </p><p>When Sinking’s measured breaths stop completely, she can’t blame him. Neither can she blame him when they come back staggered. It is heartbreaking, though, to hear the noise he makes then, when the seconds have ticked to almost a minute; something sharp and muffled at the same time, like bones breaking beneath thick flesh. He tries to speak several times and every word cracks in that same way. Then he gives up and falls into himself and she hears him break in half against his own arms, and, honestly, shouldn’t Lantry do something? Should <em> she </em>do something? She doesn’t think there is anything to do, and yet she feels a tug in that ancient, primal part of her brain dedicated to pack animal instinct, where a wounded member’s cries signal danger, and it’s spiking her pulse something fierce.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad!” she finally says, far louder than intended. Lantry looks shocked but she has to keep going.</p><p>“Nevarrat Luce is a bitch and you’re better off without her!”</p><p>Sinking’s shiny face pops out of his arms with a startled speed.</p><p>“Sirin- <em> language! </em>”</p><p>“I’m sixteen, I’m allowed to swear!”</p><p>“You’re <em> fifteen </em>!”</p><p>“Fifteen is old enough for swearing!”</p><p>“Only when I’m not listening!” </p><p>“<em> You </em> said it-”</p><p>“I was emotionally compromised! That’s not fair!”</p><p>Sirin crosses her arms and gives him a look of teenage defiance so withering that Lantry must feel the heat from it catch his cheek. The old man’s expression has gone from shocked to confused to something like awe, and Sirin is momentarily proud of herself.</p><p>“Besides,” she continues, unstoppable as she is, “I’m right! That woman was nothing but horrible to you! Isn’t it better to have no parents at all if the ones you get are awful?” and she does not realize the challenge in her voice until it is spoken. She looks the Archon of Suggestion in the eye and dares him to tell her differently. </p><p>He does not. He cannot. Not after the long afternoons they have spent talking about things she won’t talk about with anyone else; not after all the warmth, all those promises, about how she is more than the sum of her family, about how her past does not define her future. Sinking is many things but he tries not to be a liar and in that moment she has him on the precipice. He chooses to fall on the right side.</p><p>“It is,” he admits. His voice is still thick and he’s shaking a little. Lantry nods to himself, unwinding a scroll in his hands.</p><p>“No one asked me, but I agree” he contributes. Then, when the scroll has been tamed, he sucks the old ink from a quill and dips it fresh. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” he begins with an air of bad news about him, “should I state my theory?”</p><p>“Guess so. Is that what’s on your paper?”</p><p>“No, these are court records.”</p><p>He presents them with a minimal flourish.</p><p>“… Which state that in the summer of 425, five people were brought before Tunon on charges of sabotage. These people were identified by a courier who had been in the process of delivering important documents to Bastard City when the caravan she was travelling with was held at knifepoint on the road, and many valuables- these documents included- were taken. The caravan suffered no other harm.” </p><p>Sinking fixes Sirin with a confused look and she returns it, though neither of them interrupt.</p><p>“The original course of action was sending a Fatebinder to track down and pass judgement on these criminals, but when they were found it was revealed that their leader was a man of noble birth and diplomat status.” </p><p>The confused look turns to understanding.</p><p>“Upon being brought to the court, the diplomat was recognized as carrying a sigil – of one House Nevarrat. When asked about this, the diplomat identified himself as Nevarrat Solem.”</p><p>Sinking nods. Sirin has no idea why Lantry is reminding them of this, but she lets him go on.</p><p>“He could provide no additional information on how to reach his kin to confirm his story, but did add that his family might not recognize him, as he had not seen them since childhood. After this he… <em> Ahem </em>, quote; “fell victim to an illness both sudden and inexplicable. At first suspected to be a trick, the illness was verified when the Archon of Justice himself saw no lie in the man, and he was transferred to the care of the court healer for three nights. In the interim, the Archon passed judgement on the four remaining criminals, electing to send them as recruits to the Scarlet Chorus.” End quote.”</p><p>“Wait-” Sinking sounds more disbelieving than shocked, even with his eyes wide enough to rival the sun behind them.<br/>
“I got sick?”</p><p>“You did, Archon. Does this ring any bells? Any bells at all?”</p><p>“Maybe? I- I remember the inn. Kind of. And I remember being brought in. I guess now that I think about it there were more people there, but - I don’t recall getting sick at all.”</p><p>“That actually brings me back to my theory.”</p><p>“Which is?” Sirin asks. Lantry gives her a tired smile.</p><p>“Which is this; on that summer’s day, a man with an undocumented exarch power was apprehended on the charge of sabotage. Whether he was guilty or not doesn’t matter - what matters is that this man, like most men, did not want to be on the wrong side of justice, and so he used his powers to escape. He convinced everyone, including himself, of his noble birth and high status. This plan backfired and the man and his companions were brought in front of Tunon, where the exarch kept spinning his story. Eventually, this falsified noble had a name. A name with history attached. A name with living relatives. His new supposed traits and skills and line of work got too dissimilar to his old that the two could not coexist, and the exarch took ill from the sheer strain. I think - and I have thought for a time, now - that you are that man, Sinking. I think you rewrote your own history that day.”</p><p>Sinking has gathered his hands in front of his chin, and his face keeps shifting above them. First confused, then something soft with panic beneath; something roiling, restrained, something worried. Something hurt. Sirin does not go to him, but she keeps his eyes on hers. </p><p>Sinking opens his mouth. What should have been words come out as quick little breaths, like he just took a bite of something too hot to swallow, then the breaths get quicker, and quicker, and when Sirin is certain he is about to burst into tears again he starts <em> laughing </em> , of all things; quiet little huffs that might have been sobs if they weren’t pressed through smiling teeth.<br/>
“Sorry,” he whispers immediately, “sorry, sorry- this is a lot,”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Sirin answers. She nods at him and he nods back, and then he pushes a hand through his hair to slick it backwards and off his face. It naturally parts at the side and falls, heavily, over one shoulder. </p><p>“I am- I mean, I was a criminal?”</p><p>“I’m fairly certain, yes.”</p><p>“And I’m not a Nevarrat?”</p><p>“I don’t believe you are, my Archon. Take your time.”</p><p>Sinking chuckles again, desperately trying to diffuse some tension inside himself. Sirin has never heard him laugh so quietly.</p><p>“So- wait, so I-? With my powers? My whole <em> life </em>, just-? All of it?”</p><p>Lantry turns the document over in his hands, eyes flitting over the notes he’s made at the back of it. If he is actually reading or simply buying time is hard to tell.</p><p>“Not… All of it, no. If you had perfectly replaced every facet of your past to fit this new narrative, I would not have noticed enough discrepancies to start suspecting you. Do you remember when you told me the sky was green?”</p><p>Sinking bursts into giggles.</p><p>“I did do that.”</p><p>“I believed you, then. I thought that <em> of course </em>the sky was green. The sky has always been green! And when I went outside, you know what I saw?”</p><p>“Probably not a green sky?”</p><p>“You’re absolutely correct. It was quite surprising. It took me a day or so to adjust, but I did, and now I know for a fact that the sky is blue, just as I knew for a fact that it was green after you told me.” he gestures upwards, as if to prove his point.<br/>
“Your powers cannot change reality, Sinking, only convince individuals of it. I believe you convinced the court that you were someone else, but that doesn’t mean you yourself changed. My best guess? You are still the person you were before, even if you can’t remember who that was.”</p><p>Sinking lays down in the grass. Sirin looks at the markedly blue sky. When he speaks, he sounds exhausted.</p><p>“... I could have another family out there.”</p><p>Sirin wonders if that is true. She imagines a vague collection of people with long hair and brass eyes and loud laughs, and wonders if they would be Sinking’s family if he doesn’t remember them. If he doesn’t know them. Didn’t he tell her family is supposed to be chosen? That titles like brother and mother have to be earned?</p><p>“You could,” Lantry agrees, “among other things. I think it could be very interesting - not to mention historically significant, given your current position - to uncover your real past. If you wish to.”</p><p>“That’s a lot,” Sinking answers, which isn’t much of an answer at all. Lantry is merciless.</p><p>“I understand! I completely understand. Which is why I am going to offer to do it for you. For all your talents, Archon, you are not a researcher, but <em>I am</em>. And I am not ashamed to admit I have a vested interest in your story from a historical perspective. You could - if you are comfortable with the idea - let me do the digging for you. After all, I have already chronicled your journey from the point we met. Seems fitting that I should chronicle the points before.”</p><p>Sinking rubs his eyes and keeps his hands there, blocking out the rest of the world.</p><p>“I have about two more sentences left in me before I need a nap or something. This whole thing is… I don’t wanna say <em> a lot </em>again but, you know. If I say yes, where are you gonna start looking?”</p><p>“Well, according to the record, there were four people present for your arrest who were not judged alongside you. Four people who knew you before you were Nevarrat Solem. And we know where they ended up.”</p><p>“The Chorus,” Sirin mumbles. She tries to be quiet, but Lantry hears, and sees, and nods. <em> The Chorus. </em></p><p>“Right,” Sinking says, “I’ll just hit Nerat up and see what he’s doing later. Maybe he’ll be so confused that he forgets to kill me while I ask about my nameless old crime buddies.”</p><p>“Ever the tactician, Sinking. Were those the two sentences?”</p><p>“... Yeah.”</p><p>“Would you like to nap?”</p><p>He looks like he seriously considers it. Eventually, though, he sits up and shakes his head.</p><p>“Better to nap at home.”</p>
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